


When In Paris

by Lunasong365, sous_le_saule



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, communication mishaps, hotel mishaps, talk already, translation/adaptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9779132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: Aziraphale hopes that the change in scenery provided by an impromptu trip to Paris will help impart some much-needed clarity to his and Crowley’s relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Etreinte](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590668) by [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule). 



> Translator's note: I hope you enjoy this collaborative translation of one of sous-le-saule's works from spring 2016: "Etreinte." This piece is actually part 2 of a [series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/447328) but I think it works well on its own.
> 
> Author's note: I confirm.  
> Entrust any text to Luna and she'll find the way to make it better. This one is no exception. I learn a lot by working with her! Thank you so much!

Everything is frozen in time and space. The hallway is silent; the emergency lights ward off total darkness. Aziraphale has lost track of how long he’s been standing in front of this door. What if a hotel guest comes stumbling back at this late hour and catches him, motionless, lurking in the dimly-lit corridor? He’d rather not think about it. How many times has he stepped forward to knock, only to back away, his upraised arm falling limp to his side? _Breathe in. Breathe out. Stop shaking._

_Stop obsessing over the high risk of what is at stake here and, dammit, show some fortitude. At worst, you can continue to sidestep the issue. Invent some silly excuse for your somewhat odd behavior. Just think of something that justifies you knocking on the door. At three o’clock in the morning. In pajamas. Good old Aziraphale and his eccentricities. This game has gone on for far too long. Oh God, this is ridiculous. Back off, there’s no need to do this tonight. Go back to your room and bury yourself along with your inadequacies under the blankets. After all, you’ve become quite the expert at avoiding the issue._

_Tomorrow, in the light of day, you won’t regret stifling tonight’s impulsive decisions. You never make a good decision after dark._ Night may provide wise counsel to those who dream while sleeping, but to dreamers with hearts and eyes wide open she imparts a deceptive sense of freedom and a measure of recklessness held tightly in check during the day.

The moonlight struggles to pierce the clouds, one ray finding its way through the window at the end of the hallway to cast nebulous shadows. _Tomorrow will be another day. You can endure it. It will be the same as all the other days. What does a day matter, when one is immortal? Just one more day to be on guard, to avert your eyes before they betray you, to restrain every gesture that might reveal what can never be acknowledged._

And suddenly, the prospect of another day like this is too much to ask. It’s become unbearable. But it doesn’t make sense to risk everything just because he can no longer endure this immense burden of secrecy. A careless endearment or longing gaze could cause so much harm that he’d be compelled to avoid the demon completely. Why risk it now? Why expunge years of restraint?

Perhaps because they’re not in London. Not too far away, but he does feel less restrained here than at home. Aziraphale wonders if this idea was already tucked in a corner of his brain when he’d urged Crowley to join him at this exhibition in Paris. Or perhaps it was just reluctance to be alone on the Continent. For centuries their paths had barely crossed as they’d tracked the world in all directions, but now a short separation seems intolerable. For just two days. One night. _Tonight._

_No, no, not tonight! You’re not ready. Do you think you need to rehearse a speech? Aren’t there already too many words straining at their tethers, jostling against each other with impatience? Perhaps that’s the problem. They are so numerous they need to be sorted, categorized and carefully filtered to mitigate the danger. And you’re wearing pajamas, by the Saints!_

With an exasperated sigh of resignation, he once more retreats.

The elevator! Because of his dithering, he’d lost track of his surroundings. He watches the door slide open at the end of the corridor. Two voices whisper intimate messages not meant for others’ ears. Panic! Without thinking, he pushes the lever of the door handle down. It’s not closed. Or did he unlock it without realizing? Well, there’s no time to consider it further; he’s already inside. He silently closes the door behind him.

Aziraphale stills his breath and listens. The demon’s breathing is deep and regular. Sound asleep. The half-drawn curtains create a pattern of shadows similar to those in the hallway. The voices are gone now; he should leave. But Aziraphale, captivated, cannot avert his gaze from the dozing form on the bed. They’d used to spend Sundays together on the sofa in the back room, with Aziraphale reading on one end while Crowley reclined against him in somnolent abandon. It hasn’t happened now for a couple years. Aziraphale hasn’t dared to ask what changed. He misses it; misses _him_. Even if it has now become torture to reflect on those stolen glances as the demon slept, or the softness of his hair, or the curve of his perfect cheekbones.

How long has Crowley been avoiding all physical contact? It had never been much: a hand on the arm, a hug on rare occasions. Maybe a bit more, if they’d both been drinking. A head on the other’s shoulder. Legs that accidently brushed against the other’s if they’d sat too close on the sofa. Even those encounters have ceased. The demon seems to be keeping to himself, as if he’d perceived something he didn’t want to encourage.  Aziraphale senses that his own body, all too human, is suffering from lack of contact, no matter how brief, with another kindred being.

He is no longer able to overlook what he’s taken great effort to consciously ignore since entering the room. Above the sheets that cover him to his waist, Crowley is naked. The angel blushes as his mind stutters over the obvious question. His mouth is suddenly dry. He turns, ready to leave. But why don’t his legs obey him? Why are his feet moving him unwillingly toward the bed?

How would it feel to have Crowley’s skin next to his? His entire being cries out with desire too long denied. But that’s not why he’s here. He’ll never get what he _really_ wants from the demon. It will only be an illusion, a poor substitute for the truth. But it _is_ something. Aziraphale’s garments fall soundlessly to the floor. He can’t believe he’s now slipping between the sheets. Just a brief taste to appease his hunger. Just one small moment in an eon of time.

 

Crowley wakes as the mattress shifts beneath him. The sensation of a presence by his side, more instinctual than fully realized, makes him flinch violently and utter an exclamation of terror ending in a half-formed oath. A reassuring hand slips along his side to rest on his chest. A murmur. “It’s me.” He struggles to fully wake. Is he still dreaming? His dreams are never this realistic. He feels the weight of the angel’s hand, his breath on his shoulder, inhales his scent. Even here, the subtle perfume of old books surrounds him. And there’s something else, something he hadn’t previously noticed. He stops fighting to open his eyes and tries to relax. _Ah._ The smell of rain splashing on the pavement at the end of a long hot summer day. He could remain in this moment for hours, immersed in these intoxicating fragrances, and be perfectly content. But something is wrong. It is preposterously absurd to imagine that Aziraphale might be lying beside him in his bed. Even in the few moments he’d dared to dream the impossible (and he cursed each time he’d put himself through that masochism), it had never been like _this_ that the angel confessed his feelings. It’s so unlike… Aziraphale! “What… ?”

Two fingers land on his mouth, cutting him off. “Shhhh.” Like a desperate prayer. “Please. Don’t say anything, just let me… “ The angel presses in close against him, and now there is no doubt that Aziraphale is as naked as he. He dares not move lest that somehow break the spell, since it’s now unequivocally clear that this is real. Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s neck and exhales deeply. An errant curl tickles the demon’s cheek and chin. Crowley struggles to control his wildly-beating heart. And, he berates himself, that’s not the only part of his body that’s out of control. The natural progression of this situation would be apparent if anyone other than Aziraphale was involved. Can one suspect an angel of lust? Not any more than one could believe an angel to be in love. Especially with a demon. A maelstrom of thoughts swirls inside Crowley’s head, contrasting with his forced stillness and deliberate silence. Seconds, or minutes, or hours go by.

Inevitably, the breath against his skin becomes more erratic, the contact of skin against his adopts an unpracticed urgency. Aziraphale’s lips gently brush his collarbone. The hand resting on his chest initiates a tentative caress, gaining courage in the absence of a rebuff. To yield is so tempting. Crowley wants to ask a compelling question that has been burning inside him, but he’s afraid of the answer. As long as he doesn’t ask, he can believe the secret hope he’s been harboring for so long is coming true.

At the moment, his query is almost superseded by the pleasurable sensation of smooth skin against fevered touch, the heady ethereality of angel essence, the passionate exchange of…... _ah, shit._

 _Shit._ It’s not working. Why does he need to know? His entire body revolts at the thought of stopping the angel to ask the question. But he can’t let it go.

“Why?”

Aziraphale pauses, his breath catching. Why did he have to ask? Why would a demon raise questions about this situation? The angel hesitates. _Three words. Is it really necessary to say them? Isn’t that why you were in front of the door? Well, yes. But you were about to turn around and walk away. Do you really think it’s better to have thrown yourself into his bed? Could anything be more humiliating than being laughed at: your pajamas on the carpet and your d…_ His traitorous human body continues to respond. _Really, Aziraphale, you’ve made a mess of things!_ He couldn’t possibly lie, but perhaps a half-truth might do the trick.

“I was lonely. Don’t read too much into this. What happens in Paris stays in Paris.”

Crowley freezes. _So that’s it. That’s why the angel is here. Of course, you stupid moron. Why else would someone hop in bed with a demon? You know you couldn’t hope for anything more. He can’t love you the way you want to be loved. And believing otherwise, if only for a moment, only makes it worse. You must be one pathetic demon to not recognize a lonely being’s desperate play at intimacy. End this right now. You’re not doing yourself any favors._

But Crowley can’t end it. Because even if this isn’t how he wanted it to be, it might be all he’ll ever get. In the light of day, he’ll take measure of the damage done but right now he’s willing to get burnt in reckless conflagration. So he transmutes his disappointment into combustible fuel to kindle the flame.

_Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you came for._

Crowley strikes quickly, flipping Aziraphale and forcing him flat on the mattress. With one hand, he pins Aziraphale’s wrist to the pillow and with the other, he forces Aziraphale’s thighs open before slithering up the length of his body to leer into the angel’s dilated pupils. The demonic heat in Crowley’s eyes elicits a startled gasp from Aziraphale, belied by the unquenched desire in the fervid moan that follows. It’s an overt provocation to continue.

With fierce resolve Crowley tilts his head to bite and suck at tender skin, raising bruises in the places he’d so gently kissed. All the better to help the angel remember, if this is going to be their only night together. Aziraphale now has his eyes half lidded, squirming against the assault but canting his hips to grind against the demon’s erection. Crowley almost reproaches himself for the pleasure he’s deriving from such salacious intimacy, as his goal is total possession. He wants to hear the angel beg and shout his name. But Aziraphale’s eyes are now a baffling combination of desire and resignation as he pulls the demon in, raking the nails of his free hand down Crowley’s back and marking his neck with a punishing bite. The stinging pain rips out a groan that forces Crowley to momentarily pause. It’s long enough to notice the stifled sob against his ravaged skin, the resolute line of Aziraphale’s profile.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asks harshly.

The angel turns his head, a tear absorbing into the pillow. He whispers a bitter affirmation. “Go ahead. There’s no reason to stop.”

But Aziraphale’s tear is _every_ reason to stop. Crowley snaps out of what has seemed like a trance, and reflects on what has transpired, as one might try to fit together the pieces of an impossible dream in the morning. Suddenly aware of the strength with which he’s gripping Aziraphale’s wrist, he releases his grasp, revealing the livid image of fingerprints. He backs away a few feet and once more asks, “Why did you come to me? What _do_ you want?”

“Only what you’re able to give me. I ask nothing more.”

The words sputter out of the demon, outstripping his thought, eager to be spoken and refusing to be held back any longer. “Don’t you know that you already have me? Everything I am is yours.”

Bewildered, Aziraphale’s eyes stare into his own. In those eyes is immense doubt, countered by equally infinite hope.

_Maybe… ?_

Crowley would like nothing more than to silence that nagging hope that has been ceaselessly pestering him for far too long: _Perhaps it’s possible…_ He might as well bluntly say it, see his reaction and shut this down once and for all…

“Aziraphale, I love you.”

At first, it’s as if he hadn’t said anything. Aziraphale just sits there. Then the gleam of sudden realization in his widened eyes knocks Crowley off-balance and woozy. The angel reaches out his hands to cradle Crowley’s temples and murmurs earnestly, “Show me.”

 

And, because he has nothing to lose, the demon closes his golden eyes with assent and lets the angel discover with delight the parts of Crowley belonging to him. In the chaotic murky shadows that the demon embodies, a multitude of radiant lights pierce the darkness. Happy memories, glowing like candles venerating cherished sanctuaries. Each one calls to him: _Aziraphale_. And each is comprised of pure love.

“Oh, Crowley. I never knew.”

With downcast eyes, he repeats softly to himself, “I never knew.”

His fingers brush tenderly against Crowley’s cheek, whose lashes flutter as he opens his eyes. The angel resumes in a murmur, “I never intended… I thought that it might be easier for you that way. I was afraid that… “

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hands and says urgently, “Promise me. Promise me that what happens in Paris won’t stay in Paris.”

“Of course I promise. How could I not?”

But Aziraphale realizes, despite the evidence, despite what he hopes his words and expression convey, there remains in the demon an adamant fear and uncertainty.

“I love you too.” He leans forward, embraces Crowley, who still resists.

“As… “

“As nothing other than yourself. I wish you could see my love the way I’m able to see yours in you… “

At last, the restraint of all those impossible years of waiting is torn free from the demon’s heart, and he wonders how he could have survived in such a straitjacket. He melts into Aziraphale’s arms. “Angel.”

“God, how I’ve missed you calling me that. How I’ve missed _you_.”

“I never went away.” But Crowley knows perfectly well what the angel means.

He only now realizes that they have never kissed, as if it had been too dangerous a boundary to cross, or a treasure in reserve. He’s suddenly grateful that this is true. He leans into Aziraphale and their lips connect, and it’s so simple, so obvious that he can’t understand why they’ve waited so long. Their tongues gently, then fervently entwine in a sensual dance. So much time. Years. _Centuries_. The past existed only to bring them to this moment. There can be no more regrets, only a future. Each caress stokes the banked embers of desire, each whispered sigh a statement: _I’ve been waiting for you. I’m yours._

The ease with which their bodies now slip together is almost terrifying. Is it possible to get lost in this feeling, in each other, and return unharmed? But they are already past this point and beyond considering return. Just further… and more… Each pushes the other until they reach their bodies’ limits. At this moment, when everything surges past a vestige of control, Crowley has a vision. Through a starburst of kaleidoscopic color, he floats in an immense space, without limit, filled with indescribable joy. Something in him vaguely remembers a distant but similar euphoria. The most intense light he has ever seen appears to descend from the sky. He senses that he should fear it, but it radiates pure benevolence. The whole universe seems balanced on this vertex, bathed in what Crowley now recognizes as Aziraphale’s love. It swells and grows, then intensifies and flows, taking on even more vivid hues, converging at another point. He knows, inexplicably and without doubt, that this point represents him.

“Crowley? Crowley?” The worried tone in Aziraphale’s voice pulls him back to reality. He notices that his cheeks are damp and wipes them with a trembling hand. Aziraphale watches with trepidation. “Are you okay, my love?” The word hangs for a moment in the air, prompting a furtive smile from Crowley. Reassured, the angel falls back to the pillows and Crowley tumbles with him. They are soaked in sweat, sticky and completely exhausted. Neither has the will or ability to move. Crowley nestles his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder, who ceaselessly strokes his fingers across the demon’s fine cheekbone and past his ear, finishing with caresses that feather through the demon’s soft hair. A strip of bright light has now escaped through the half-open curtain and is slowly advancing across the room.

Suddenly the angel chuckles. Crowley looks up, questioning.

“I think we’ve missed our flight.”

“Eh, so we’ll catch another one… “

The demon rests his head again, and wraps himself around Aziraphale as if he never wants to let go.

“…in a year or two, when I let you out of this room.”

 


End file.
